shapely legs in the process. Toby promptly lifted Gracia to the seat, which was a sort of chair mounted on a packsaddle. She blushed crimson, while all the others pretended not to notice.
Rafael and Miguel and the rest had almost caught up by then, so the horses were chevied into motion, and the three men set off once more toward the front of the procession, leaving the two senoras chattering like parrots.
'Senora Collel is going home to more than Miguel and Rafael are?' Toby inquired.
'I would presume so, senor.' Francisco's manner was guarded, so he might have the same suspicions about the packhorse that Toby did. It seemed to be making heavy work of carrying a very compact, unassuming load.
'A formidable lady!' remarked Hamish, although he had spent the whole time ogling Eulalia.
'Indeed,' Francisco agreed. 'And a very well informed one. Senora Collel is the person to ask if you want to know anything at all about anyone in our party, Senor Jaume. That will shortly include your own life story, I am sure. Or else that will be the price required for the answers you seek.'
'Is gossip a weakness of the fair sex, do you think?' asked Toby.
The squire quirked a puckish smile. 'And of the old, senor. Now we come to our learned clerics. Father Guillem is from Montserrat, and is not merely a learned monk but also a holy acolyte of the sanctuary. I am not sure where Brother Bernat came from originally.'
'And whose is the child?' Toby asked, for a skinny girl of about seven was bouncing along between the preachers, holding a hand of each and periodically lifting her legs so they had to swing her. As each man was laden with a bulky pack, this was probably not easy for them. 'Are not friars and monks expected to be celibate in Spain?'
'Most are celibate, senor. A certain number are even chaste. The girl's name is Pepita. She is Brother Bernat's ward. I suspect her parents died in the war, but… but Senora Collel may be better informed on the matter than I am.'
Hearing the three men and one pony advancing on them, the two robed men halted and turned. Little Pepita frowned with a child's frank distrust, moving closer to the taller and older of the two, who wore the gray and must therefore be Brother Bernat, the Franciscan.
The other spoke first, in a voice with the rumble of thunder. 'Good spirits bless you, my sons!' Father Guillem was a monolith of a man in his forties, solid and square-cut — square his jaw, square his shoulders, and his sandaled feet seemed set too far apart. Even his black tonsure appeared somehow angled instead of round. In a large and hairy fist he clutched a staff almost as massive as Toby's own, much heavier than was needed for walking, so he could be added to the list of the company's defenders. He frowned as he listened to Francisco's introductions. 'And whose men are you?'
The questioned burned, as it always did, and Toby bristled. 'We appear to have become Don Ramon's, Father. For the time being.'
The cleric disapproved. 'Laws in all lands require a freeman to have a lord. No land, no lord, no guild?'
'Only honesty and a strong right arm.'
'The strong arm I can see. I trust you will demonstrate the honesty.'
'I also try to be civil, unless I am given cause not to be.'
'A civil reply in the circumstances,' said Brother Bernat mildly.
Grateful for that remark, Toby turned to him. He was tall and spare, a willow. His face was lined and aged, even his eyebrows silvered, and his tonsure had shrunk to a trace of swansdown around a naturally bald pink scalp. He seemed absurdly ancient to be walking the length of Aragon with a pack on his back, but his wizened lips were smiling.
'Thank you, Brother.' Toby bowed. He normally disapproved of friars, men who ought to find themselves honest labor instead of wandering around the country telling other people how to behave. Even monks were a cut above friars, if they performed useful functions like caring for the sick or providing hospitality to travelers. However, this old man was the first of the pilgrims he thought he might be able to like.
Then he noticed that Brother Bernat's eyes were surprisingly clear and dark for so old a face, and they were appraising him with more than normal curiosity. 'So you are truly your own man, are you?'
He almost seemed to be hinting at something, and Toby felt a shiver of unease. All these pilgrims were infested with curiosity.
'I answer to no one!' he snapped. The friar frowned.
'He's very big!' Pepita said accusingly. She was pretty, elfin, and probably undernourished. She was also a welcome distraction from the friar's disconcerting inspection.
Toby went down on one knee. 'I can't help it. You're very small, but you will grow bigger. I don't know how to grow smaller.'
She giggled. 'I want to ride on your shoulders!'
'Child,' Brother Bernat said reprovingly, 'remember your manners!'
'I don't see why she shouldn't,' Toby said, glad of a chance to demonstrate some civility for a change. He cupped his hands for her. 'Mount!'
Instantly she scrambled up to sit on his pack and clasp her skinny legs around his neck. He stood up, making her squeal in delight. Her grip on his helmet tilted it to an uncomfortable angle, but her weight was trivial.
'You should not encourage her, my son,' Brother Bernat said, but he was smiling again, sunshine on an ancient mountain.
'She's no burden. Pepita, you are our lookout. Watch for bandits and shout if you see any. I'll send her back in a day or two, Brother.'
'You also travel to Montserrat, Tobias of the strong arm?' Father Guillem rumbled. 'For what purpose?'
More nosiness! 'We agreed to escort a lady there, Father. While I'm there, I shall ask the tutelary to foretell my future.'
A frown seemed to be the monk's natural expression. 'Spirits are not oracles. Seek out some fairground huckster if you want your fortune told — but waste only money you do not need.'
'I have never known such money, Father. Is the tutelary unable to see the future or merely unwilling to reveal it?'
Father Guillem's manner chilled even more. 'You raise heavy matters for a social chat, Tobias. A private discussion when we are camped would be a more appropriate setting.'
'Why do you ask, Tobias?' Brother Bernat inquired softly. 'Does your future seem especially clouded?'
The dark eyes were rummaging through Toby's soul again. He decided he was outmatched — which Hamish would certainly have told him must be the case, had he asked before he started this absurd fencing. He had not intended to cross wits with the two clerics, but how did one down swords in such a contest?
'Every man's future is clouded, surely?'
'No.'
'No?'
Brother Bernat smiled with the benevolent tolerance of the very old for the very young. 'Come and talk with us this evening. You are an interesting young man, Tobias.'
Definitely nettled now, Toby barked, 'In what way?'
'Your eyes do not match your eyebrows. No, I do not mock. Your strength lies uneasy upon you. You have the bones of a fighter and the soul of someone else.'
Was that only a lucky guess, or was the monk detecting the hob in him? Demons could do that, but he did not think any unaided mortal could. It was Father Guillem who was the acolyte, an acolyte being a sort of adept. But anyone could be a hexer, even a friar.
'I don't think I know how to answer that remark, Brother. I'll take your little girl for a walk.'
Toby strode off, cursing himself for a dimwitted boor. He seemed to be putting up every back he met. His ill temper was soon dispelled, for Pepita twisted his helmet, drummed her heels on his chest, and shouted, 'Faster, faster!'
'Faster? Who do you think I am, Thunderbolt?'
